


a kingdom or this

by saernamaz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (it really is), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Inaccurate use of history for Reasons(tm), M/M, Slow Burn, rating maaaay change in the future, this is mainly the tale of how Laurent escapes Arles and then goes all lovey dovey w Damen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: "Soon he will leave too, leaving Arles and its phantoms behind it. He had thought about it for months, as soon as his uncle stopped seeing him as a lovely creature he could submit, but as a political rival for a throne he never asked for.”Laurent is seventeen, when he decides to flee Arles, to journey to Akielos, and finally escape his uncle’s claws.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	a kingdom or this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii im back... on my bullshit... yes i could finish all of my past drafts but that wouldnt be funny... anyways
> 
> this fic had been on my mind for quite some time actually and i have it mostly figured at ??? except some fillers episodes/chapters haha so im really hoping to finish it some days
> 
> also im on lockdown again, and probably for two months lol, so i hope it’ll give me time to really work on it !!!!
> 
> i’ll try to update this every week/every two weeks if i can keep up cause... college is still That Bitch
> 
> as always im my own beta, so im so sorry or any mistakes or bad grammar... grammar was never my forte. <3

Laurent felt restless, kneeling in front of the feminine statue, which he thought looked so much like his mother he had felt like hugging it years ago when she departed, his hands before his eyes, silently praying. The candles burned low on the mosaic tiles that decorated the walls, sending red and blue hues to dance on the marble floor. Soon he will leave too, leaving Arles and its phantoms behind it. He had thought about it for months, as soon as his uncle stopped seeing him as a lovely creature he could submit, but as a political rival for a throne he never asked for. Sometimes, it felt like Vere could not be saved anyway, and that his efforts were in vain, unheard and unnoticed by the council and the people, subdued by the Regency.

Footsteps approached the western chapel, the familiar sound of heels on tiles echoing in the night. Laurent stood as they grew nearer, and bowed one last time before the goddess. He meticulously blew out the candles, as if he had never been there. The wooden back door called to him, enticing him to simply flee without looking back. He found that escaping was harder than he thought. He would leave everything behind: his things, his memories, his identity, the remnant of his family and its legacy. Be free, or reign. _A kingdom or this_.

He did not have much of a choice at all. Not with his uncle holding Vere’s power and nobles in the palm of his hand. His uncle forsook him, and it was only a question of time before he decided that Laurent was no use at all in his court, reluctant as he was to pursue affection or act as the Regent’s pawn in the intricate game of chess Vere became since the war. The anger he felt towards himself for once submitting to the rotten core of this world engulfed him, so raw and piercing that he felt dizzy for an instant.

The darkness of the room gave him courage, and he open the door as quietly as he could, the rusty hinges squeaking. As he closed the door, he could see the blurry shadow of a priest, silently watching as the door closed, not making any move to give chase to the cloaked figure escaping in the heart of the night.

Outside, a torrential rain fell, making the soil muddy. His footsteps left marks on the earth, a testimony of his cowardice printed in the cathedral’s gardens. Warm lights of orange hues enlightened the white marble of the palace as the guards controlled the surrounding areas. Laurent had spent hours memorizing the route each regiment took, from his bedroom to the church to the main entrance. He moved gracefully, trying not to leave a mark on the pristine floors of the open hallways he had to pass, trying to escape the soldiers’ vigilance and remember his way to the arched doors that would liberate him, trying to not let his heart doubt.

He easily made his way to the white arch of the palace, watching the horizon from the small hill the palace was on. He could see the stairs behind the guarded gates. He advanced slowly, to hide behind a bush nearby, and wait until the guards left their spot to flee, but he stepped on a branch, and the noise was enough to make the two men’s heads turn toward him. As soon as they spotted him, cloaked and dark, the soldiers unsheathed their swords and walked carefully toward him, as if he was a spooked animal. Laurent refused to shake and cede to fear, even as he imagined the men dragging him to his uncle’s rooms and hand him up to his cruelty.

He stood his ground, ready to flee, as the torches approached him. When they were close enough, Laurent could distinguish two of his late’s brothers guards, low-born men deposed from their role as royal protectors. He vaguely recalled their names and their faces, echoes of the past. Jord, who would train with his brother often, and give Laurent hand-made wooden toys when he showed up to his brother’s lessons. Orlant, a crude man, whom he often saw in the kitchens flirting with the cooks and the maids alike, and who could convince the kitchen staff to give Laurent some sweets. The thought that they now worked for the Regency made his heart clench, and the hand that held his golden dagger sweaty.

“Your Highness?” Jord whispered, standing in front of him, his face surprised and oddly sad. Laurent took a small breath, imperceptibly.

“Let me through.” It was a command, spoken in his careful voice, which thankfully had ceased to crack weeks ago.

The guards exchanged a glance, and quietly, they took a step back. Their faces were neutral, but their eyes, which the flames lit up, watched him with worry. Laurent was the first to move towards the gate, Jord and Orlant on his heels. They opened the gates, after surveying the vicinity to make sure no one would spot them, and gestured for the prince to advance.

He almost thanked them for their discretion and help, but his throat felt sore and tight as he passed the gates, and he could not emit a sound other than a breathy gasp as his feet led him forward. The guards closed it behind him, and spared him one last forlorn look, before acting as if that moment never happened. The short stairs were bright before him, glistening under the moonlight, twining on the hill towards the road to the city, ablaze and lively. He ran, breathing in the cold air, the first taste of freedom and a semblance of joy he felt in the past two years. His heels thud on the marble of the steps, sending droplets of water to wallow in the green grass that tickled his ankles.

From the bottom of the stairs, the palace looked glorious, all white marble arches and blue tiles adorning the roofs, high towers and colorful gardens full of grand trees and exotic flowers. The red flags of the Regency billowed in the wind, a last goodbye from a palace that now seemed so foreign and dangerous. He felt so lonely and vulnerable, with only a dagger, a few jewels gifted to him by his uncle to exchange for money, his most comfortable clothes and his brother’s ring on him. Loneliness still felt odd to him, after the years of affection his mother and brother gave him before dying, and the semblance of closeness the Regent had offered him for two years before taking that bitter solace away from him too.

He felt tears rise, and without another thought for the past, turned around toward the lights of Arles. The path stretched before him, cleanly made of pavements, leading him down the sacred hill on top of which his ancestors had declared the province of Vere free and independent from the ancient kingdom of Artes — which had counted Vere, Achelos and a part of Patras as its provinces once, with Ios as it capital, since the Achelon royal family were the direct descent of the ancient Kings of Artes.

The city was wide awake, overflowing with smells of food and alcohol, blood and urine, efforts and rot. The last drunkards roamed the streets, swaying and mumbling incoherently as Laurent passed them by. The town garrison was nowhere to be seen, either enjoying the pleasure of the night themselves or trying to break fights around the city. The artisans started their days early, bakers putting their breads in giant ovens which made the night sky grey with smoke, farmers leaving for the fields, tailors soaking their silks in smelly dyes. No one seemed to notice him or particularly pay attention to him. Another Arlesian stay wandering in the night, lost and melancholic.

There were no guards at the gates, and Laurent let himself through without another word or thought for this city of honeyed poison.

******************

Sitting on the grass, under a peach tree, his cloak discarded next to him, he waited for the sun to rise, eyes riveted on the slowly changing colors of the autumn sky. He had walked for hours, until Arles was nothing but a small spot on the horizon and an indelible wallow on his heart, and his legs welcomed the respite. His fingers restlessly toyed with the signet ring, which he had recklessly took and attached to his neck with a golden chain. If his coloring did not give him away, his ring would. He felt thankful official portraits only started circulating when princes reached twenty-one, and there were thus less chance that people would recognize him as the infamous Crown Prince of Vere, ice-cold and malicious. Still, the fear of being recognized and forced back to Arles to face his uncle’s wrath terrified him, and yet, he could not resign himself to abandon the last piece of Auguste he could have taken with him.

Some part of him still wondered what he was afraid of: of the image of a perfect, dotting and loving uncle he had created and cultivated for years until now shattering and plunging him in utter loneliness, deserted by everyone he once cared for, or of the actual way his uncle would punish him?

The sun finally rose as his thoughts became asphyxiating, right in front of him. He promptly stood, retrieved his mantel and left tower the rising sun towards Blérencourt, a small city on the East of Belloy. He avoided the roads, preferring the feeling of freedom and the sweet smells nature and fields offered him. It felt cathartic to crush the wild flowers beneath his black riding boots, and see them crumpled and wrinkled behind him, and he indulged himself in it. He could do as he pleased, after all. Thus was the goal of the journey he embarked on.

Sometimes, he still wondered if he had made the right choice. He remembered uncle’s new boy, pretty and soft, with chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes, cheeks round with childish fat and voice high and clear like a bird, and some part of him wanted to turn back and go fetch him too. A part of him also wished he had stayed and could have offered the citizens of Vere better politics, a better life, rights and protection… He knew how lax his uncle was with the abusive garrison, how crooked some of his thugs were, terrorizing artisans and minor lords alike, how crime was on the rise because of the high taxes of his reign, made to pay the expenses of his feasts and the pet plays he elaborated for the depraved court of the lords. But Laurent was egoistical, _nothing but a pampered little bitch_ , Govart had said to him once when he first talked back after years of acting coy with the giant brute. He tried not to dwell on these thoughts too much. One day, perhaps, he will get his kingdom back, if he was not dead by then.

He soon found out that walking in the straight line towards the East was not the best way to get to Blérencourt, as he found himself on the bank of the river bordering the regions of Varenne and Belloy. He had half a mind to cross it and wander into Varenne: Berenger, the lord of these lands was kind, and he had been a friend of Auguste. He had no doubt that he would help him, and not deliver him to his uncle, but a part of him thought the destination as too obvious. His uncle would probably send men there first, and the tall mountains of the East prevented him from escaping to Vask. He would be easy to trap there. He wanted to go South as soon as he could, and only wished to stop at Blérencourt to exchange his jewels for money, and perhaps get a bath and a good night sleep. The peaches he had eaten earlier were barely enough to satisfy him, and he knew that he would soon go hungry. Hunting was out of question: he did not imagine himself skinning a small rabbit and cook it well enough to eat it.

His little détour forced him to find a road and take it. Thankfully, as he went South on the besmirched, battered route, he encountered a rider, who pointed him in the right direction, which he had taken. The man had said that Blérencourt was only a few hours away, and wished him luck on his travel. The politeness the man had shown left Laurent feeling light-hearted and slightly enamored. The mores of the small people were different then the crudeness and indelicacy of the courtiers of Arles. He found that he enjoyed the simplicity of their smile and honesty of their gentleness. After months of guarding himself from a relentless court that thought everything was entitled to them, it was a welcome change. Of course, the basket surely contained rotten fruits, but thus far, he had only gotten brief smiles and greetings from the people he had passed at Arles, and indications from a lone rider, and that enough made him think that the common folks were in every aspect better than the aristocracy.

The rest of his walk was lonely and quiet, with not a single soul travelling on that day. As the rider had said, he arrived in Blérencourt after three hours of intense march and a few breaks, to find a lively town organized around a small place with a fountain, in which children were bathing and playing. It was smaller than he thought, with only a few shops and a farm, as well as a little temple dedicated to the local feminine deity of protection, warmth and family, and cozy looking houses permeating the remaining space. He pushed back his hood, and let the sun light his face, warming it agreeably. 

He had half the mind to wander the town and relax by the banks of pink and white flowers near the temple or by the fountain, but the reality of his situation prevented him from these delicacies. He made a bee line for the only merchant in town, and pushed the wooden door, the bell above it jingly happily, as he clutched the jewels in his hand. The merchant, a middle aged man with a greying hair and rosy cheeks appeared from a threshold in the back, all smiles as he saw his client. He took his place behind his counter and bended forward, his hands flat on the surface to support him. He watched Laurent with a glimmer in his eyes and a bright smile.

“Hello there, good sir, how may I help you today?”

His voice carried a small Southern accent, from either Lys or Chasteigne, that Laurent recognized from some of his maids, whom he knew had travelled all the way from Lys to Arles to serve the royal family. The region was renowned from its prestigious schools, which taught the art of serving a lord, in more ways than one. Most of the pets came from these regions too. Laurent thought that this man must have been schooled there, for he was polite and spoke very properly. He probably looked like a minor lord, even in his most sober clothes, all unblemished skin and soft muscles. Most common youth of his age were already hard working citizens, batter the fields and preparing tanning skins.

“I came to sell you jewelry, if you may be able to take them.”

“Ah, you came to the good place. Come sir, let me see them. No doubt these fine things will sell great.”

Laurent approached the counter slowly, and presented the half-hidden jewelry to the man, whose eyes open wide in response. He looked almost sheepish as he inspected the necklaces and earrings, turning the refined gold in his fingers, letting them slide smoothly on the pearls and ornementations, and palming the incrusted gems carefully. Finally, after a heartbeat, he looked at Laurent, brown eyes apologetic.

“Those are very fine jewels you’ve got there… Worth enough gold to feed a whole city, if you ask me. Authentic gold from the mines of Allier and gems that look imported from Patras… I do not have enough gold to buy you this, sir.”

Laurent’s heart dropped. “Why did not you simply buy them less than they are worth? You could have done some profits out of the sell.”

The man chortled softly. “It would not be fair. I had half the mind to do it, but… Ultimately, it goes against the oath of the merchants I concluded with Mercurius, to be sincere in my transactions.”

“Can you take them in exchange for food and a shelter for the night?”

His primary concern was indeed food. He could always work discreetly as a mercenary to gather some gold in the future, away from the prying away of his uncle’s men, who deliberately turned a blind eye to mercenary activities for months, as long as they paid a secret tax or traded favors for a pass. His brother, as King, would not have tolerated such chaos, and he cherished the thought for a minute. What it could have been.

“These things are not proportional. You could probably buy the whole village.”

“Fine. Then trade me the village.”

The merchant paled at the display of pomposity. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to talk, and closed it as promptly as he opened it, at loss for words. Laurent himself felt disoriented at his own abrasiveness, surely buying the village to the lord of Blérencourt would come to the ears of Belloy’s tutelary lord under whose jurisdiction the region was, who in turn would inform his uncle. Who else had the fortune to buy a village, but a dissident and thieving royal nephew? Still, he stood his ground, hoping to make the merchant comply under his assessing gaze. Which he did, his shoulders relaxing slightly, as he sighed.

“Alright. I will take a pair of earrings, and let you have what you want in my shop, food and furniture alike. The rest I cannot take. Some bigger cities’ bijouterie shops might have the means to buy what is left. I cannot in good conscience steal from you, nor try to contact our lord to convince him to sell our village to a young traveller.”

“I accept.”

It was not as if he had a choice anyway. The merchant took a singe pair, as he said he would, and reconveyed the rest. Laurent took as much ressources as he could carry, opting for the hugest bag the shop proposed, and filling it with sustainable and easy-to-cook provisions. He also bought some matches for a fire, a new cloak, some warm clothes and utensils, until the bag was heavy and swollen. The merchant looked at him kindly, and did not comment on his choice of merchandise, nor the ridiculousness he must convey, with his ponderous bag, which threaten to topple him at any given chance. Laurent thanked him for the opportunity, and left the shop at once, waving as he heard the merchant wish him luck on his travel with a laugh, apparently enamored with the fiery youth that robbed his store. 

******************

The travelers on the road exchanged strange looks with him, some faces distorting with a snicker as they watched an adolescent carrying twice his weight on his shoulders. Laurent was starting to regret not fleeing with a horse, as much of a hassle it would have been to stay discreet with his mare. His uncle would most likely be aware of his disappearance as of now, and even if the servants of his household, loyal to him and deeply aware of his aversion for his uncle, had lied and say he was bedridden and could not show to his occupations for the morning, when he did not deign get out of his chambers as they actively prepared his breakfast and clothing in the adjacent room, then by the afternoon, his uncle would have checked on him and discovered the terrible truth. Laurent had no perquisites as of yet: he was slow, and despite being able to blend in, he would probably be easy to spot in a crowd. He had had half the mind to dye his hair, collect the henna that grew along the river and color the blonde in dark hues, but he could not resolve himself to look any different, less presentable, and his uncle’s voice had echoed in his head, telling him how beautiful his hair was, and that he should grow it. He hated the fact that still now, he had listened, and that his uncle’s approval still felt mesmerizing to the child he was.

Still, he did not cross any soldiers, or if he did, they did not bear the regent’s livery and did not seem to hold too much attention to their surroundings, nose blushing and pupils dilated. The farthest south, the less the guards seemed reactive to the activity around them, and the less secure the towns grew. Laurent wondered if this was a consequence of the war and traumas, or the numerous and generous vineyards that grew along the borders and could easily be exported to these rich regions of the North, which thrived on commerce with Vask and Kempt above all.

He spent hours walking, until night fell, trying to decipher with the town rumors if his uncle had taken measures to find him, and if news had already travelled of his flight. Town-folks did not seem aware, and the further he descended into Belloy, the less people were inclined to gossip about the royals. The flags that adorned the cities close to Arles were missing in the southern towns, his uncle’s power already decreasing, if not by the guards patrolling the streets and roads, but by the fact that no commoner did care much for the politics, and passively accepted his uncle, because they did not have a better option. So far from he capital, no one knew what his uncle looked like, and the years had made them forget what his father, mother and brother looked like. No one could comment on what he looked like, and his cloak carefully hide his most aristocratic features.

He arrived in the bordering town of Aisne just as the sun settled, and merchants gathered their goods to close their stalls for the night. His feet were hurting, and he felt tired and hungry, but the aches he felt tasted like liberation. And he learned a long time ago not too complain, endure until it went away, at which point he would crave the hurt and treat it like the mark he was still alive. He sat on the stairs of a temple, welcoming the respite. The marble of the stairs was covered in white petals, the remnants of a recent festival no doubt, in the honor of the trickster god of commerce and travelers. Laurent made a mental note to go pray for guidance in the morning, and ask the priest there to bless his travels, and that he shall not meet him before long, for meeting the god often meant going to the Underworld without any chance of return.

He had never believed much in the old Artesian gods, less than most people in Arles, but ultimately, faith was not so much a question of believe but of superstition and reassurance. It would not hurt, to be comforted for once, even by a distant presence watching over him.

When the stars started to show, and deeming him rested enough with the quick rest he had taken sitting, he stood and made his way to a nearby inn. The main room was calm, and not as crowded as he had thought, with only two groups of merchants and a few single souls nursing a glass of wine in the dark corners. If a few eyes turned toward him, they looked away just as rapidly. A bard was singing quietly, a melancholic tune relating the tales of Marlas. Laurent wished he could not hear the laments of the musician, and make him shut up. He reigned in his bad temper and approached the main counter, where a woman was cleaning the surface, looking bored and lost in thoughts. His presence seemed to startle her out of her reverie, and she gave him a brief smile, before standing straighter, her hands coming to rest on her child-bearing hips, looking authoritative, yet welcoming. Her status as the mistress of the place was undeniable. Standing straight and proud, Laurent could see how tall she was, all muscles and long limbs, the testimony of hours of hard work, and her Vaskian heritage. Vaskian women were said to be the daughters of the giants that had taken the shape of mountains to protect Vask from Artes, and Laurent could now understand the myth more than just through illustrations.

“Good evening, my little sir, what can I offer you?”

“A room. With toiletries.”

The woman scoffed playfully and went to fetch a key on the wall behind her, slamming it on the counter. “That’s be all?”

“Yes. I will not eat in the morning, nor tonight.”

“Alright, sir. Then it’ll be thirty silver coins.”

“One gold coin, and you never saw me there.”

The woman seemed taken aback, slightly, either by his tone or the money he possessed, but eventually nodded and grated him a warm smile. “Fine by me, little lordling. The gods be my witnesses, I shan’t say word of your coming, nor shall I ask questions. Have a fine evening, sir.”

Laurent whispered a small ‘thank you’ and quickly walked up the stairs, keys clenched in hands, until he reached his bedroom. The room was spacious, a king-sized bed with white cotton linings, which looked particularly inviting, was standing in the middle, and it was complemented with a small balcony overlooking the plains of Belloy, and a small room dedicated to hygiene. The wooden floor did not creak as he entered the room, which smelt fresh and clean. He let the bag fall loudly on the floor by the door, and he stretched his aching shoulder, making a bee line for the bathroom.

An amphora full of water was disposed next to a wooden bassin, and a small stove was set, with matched and wood to lit a fire and warm the water. Laurent calculated that it would take roughly fifteen minutes for the water to be agreeable, and set to undressing and planning his next trip as he waited. He decided that he would cross to Barbin in the morning, and hope to make it to Ladehors by the evening, and maybe settle there for a little while, until he found a crew and the money to ship himself to Akielos. He doubted he could go past the Southern lords, those who immediately swore fealty to his uncle, unscathed, and the sea was his best chance of escaping. Once in Akielos, he would sell his remaining jewelry, and have enough money to buy some ressources, and a horse, maybe, and travel to Patras or Vask after that. Never did he imagine himself settling down in Akielos. One word from his uncle, and King Damianos would have his head, served gracefully on a silver plate, finishing the job of annihilating his whole family. The mere thought of that man sent shivers down his spine, and he almost tore his map apart.

He indulged in a bath, then, still bitter and as his thoughts were assaulted with the images of the mountain of a man Damianos had been at nineteen slashing his brother, his light down, without as much as mercy, and smiling above his dead body being retrieved by weeping and shocked soldiers, all lamenting the fall of Vere. He closed his eyes, and begged his thoughts to quiet. Lethargically, he got off the bath, dressed in a simple dress he had bought in Blérencourt, and fell on the bed. The softness of the mattress and the sweet scent of the cushions lulled him to sleep, his eyes closing instantly under the heavy weight of his fatigue. His last thoughts as he drifted to sleep were for once directed to what he would do tomorrow, and not a silent prayer to be rescued, for maybe Auguste to show up in the morning to whisk him away from court.

He had rescued himself, and he was the engineer of his survival. He did not need phantoms to come to his aid now, not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i won’t let my ancient studies influence my writing anymore, im done
> 
> also this fic: is literally only influenced by ancient greece’s tragedies, concepts, mythology and folklore


End file.
